A Respectable Female Read online

  A RESPECTABLE FEMALE

  Regency Novella

  Maggie MacKeever

  Chapter One

  The wickedest rakehell in London (true, he had not had the title long, and only held it now because his predecessor had, against all good advice and common sense, retired from the field) strolled through the gaming rooms at Moxley House. He exchanged flirtatious glances with the pretty croupiers stationed at the rouge et noir table; the tall brunette who stood banker at faro, the amber-eyed minx who cast the dice at hazard, the russet-haired beauty who presided at E.O. Loversalls were notorious for their amorous adventures, the gentlemen renowned for the number and quality of their mistresses, the women for their inclination to love unwisely and too well. Beau had done his damnedest to live up to the Loversall tradition. Of late he’d secretly begun to wonder why.

  Moxley’s had once belonged to a member of his family. Beau considered it a second home, the difference between this and his primary residence being that here no one expected a man to do more than he felt like doing, save game away a fortune, and everyone knew Beau Loversall was more inclined to play at l’amour than the board of green baize cloth.

  He paused, his progress interrupted by a voluptuous young woman with masses of honey-blonde hair, a straight little nose and big green eyes, who was wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved emerald silk gown that clung to her enviable curves. She had placed herself smack in his path.

  Beau raised a brow. She lowered hers. “Zut! I’ll thank you to leave off casting sheep’s eyes at the staff. It distracts them from what they’re supposed to be doing, which is to make sure that it’s the customers and not the house that’s being fleeced.”

  “Don’t work yourself into a fidget.” Beau knew that, despite her accent, Liliane was no more French than his boot. “There’s no harm done.”

  She looked him over — lean muscular figure clad in an excellently fitting corbeau colored coat, white marcella waistcoat, cream-colored kerseymere breeches that fitted snugly to calf and thigh; face of such wicked perfection as to make an angel weep; red-gold hair worn slightly longer than was fashionable, and disheveled as if from an amorous caress; eyes the deep blue of fine sapphires — and sniffed. “Clearly you have no notion of the cost of champagne and green peas.”

  “No, nor do I care to.” Beau tucked Liliane’s hand through his arm. She permitted him to escort her into the supper room, where crystal chandeliers illuminated small tables laid with silver and fine china set on pristine linen cloths.

  The supper room was empty of company at this hour, save for the solitary gentleman brooding at a corner table in company with a half-empty bottle of brandy, which as they watched he hoisted with an unsteady hand. Deeply, he drank. A lock of dark hair tumbled forward on his marble brow.

  “Young Tremaine,” murmured Liliane. “Luck smiled on him at the faro table, but abandoned him at hazard. Now he doesn’t know how he’s to come down with the derbies without applying to Messrs Howard and Grubbs.”

  Beau wouldn’t have been surprised to learn his companion received a commission from the local moneylenders. Moxley’s held out irresistible allure to impressionable young greenheads eager to prove they were men of the world. Liliane was the mistress of Moxley’s, the hell’s titular owner — the afore-mentioned previously most wicked — having recently removed himself from Town. “What will you do?”

  “Give him the opportunity to buy back his vowels. Beyond that—” She shrugged. “A cove who can’t afford to pay, shouldn’t play. Why are you playing least-in-sight tonight?”

  “I’m not avoiding anyone,” Beau retorted, with perfect truth; much as he might like to, a man could hardly avoid his own reflection in the looking-glass. Lately he’d taken to bypassing mirrors altogether whenever he could. In a mere three years, Beau would turn fifty, and upon attaining half a decade (or seeing it looming on the horizon, which wasn’t far enough away by half) had been inspired to stop and not only take a good look in the mirror but take stock of his life. What had he accomplished? How much time did he have left? If he turned up his toes tomorrow, would anyone care? His daughter might, for a moment, but Zoe’s primary focus would always be herself. His various relatives might mourn a few moments longer, but not many, while his mistresses—

  Beau winced. His latest inamorata, Signorina Alfonsina Giordano, a tempestuous Italian actress employed at the Theater Royal, had at the climax (or anticlimax) of their last encounter hurled a vase at his head.

  It was deuced unfair. If a man was allotted a finite number of indulgences in his lifetime, he should bloody well be warned of it before the hourglass ran out.

  Liliane nudged Beau, reclaiming his attention. “You might try the bile of a jackal. Or melting down the fat from the hump of a camel. I hear it’s a bang-up remedy for a shaft that refuses to rise above half mast.”

  Beau cast her a quelling glance. “There’s nothing wrong with my mechanics, thank you very much. It’s my enthusiasm that has flagged.”

  “You have that look about you, like a brat whose favorite toy is broke.” Liliane tapped one slender gloved finger on her chin. “The head being shaved and anointed with mustard, is recommended for the lethargy. Or, alternately, a spoonful of mustard in the mouth. Which should at least distract you from feeling mopish, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” Beau growled.

  Before she could goad him further — Liliane had many more remedies to suggest, involving soup made from animal genitalia, powdered rhinoceros horn, skink flesh and sparrow brains — a burly, black-clad, bald-headed man entered the room. His eyes were cold as the depths of winter, his nose as flattened as his ears. A noted bruiser before allegations of misconduct resulted in his banishment from the ring, Samson now preserved his pugilistic efforts for the gaming hell. Woe betide any patron caught doing what he shouldn’t. He’d find himself summarily snatched up by the waistband of his trousers and tossed out into the street.

  Altercations at the entry were not unusual events at Moxley’s, Liliane having barred any number of choice bloods from the house. The current choice blood, one Roderick Kilpatrick, otherwise known as Randy Roddy, was demanding to speak with his brother Beau.

  “Half–brother,” Beau amended. The Loversalls in general were not noted for carnal circumspection. His own father having been a prime example of the breed, Beau had numerous half-siblings, most of whom he’d never met. Randy Roddy was not among those strangers, alas.

  “Merde alors!” said Liliane. “You might find it easier to play at bo-peep if the whole world didn’t know where you were hid.” She glanced at the burly Samson. “If the blighter raises a further rumpus, feel free to break his head.”

  If Beau didn’t persuade Roddy to cease haunting the front door of Moxley’s, Liliane might put his head next in line to be broke. Therefore, he accompanied Samson through the gaming rooms, along a carpeted hallway, down the broad stair and through the iron-shielded green baize door into the foyer, through the front door and down the steps into the cobblestone street. Moxley’s stood on the west side of the Haymarket, at the northern end; two residences combined behind a red brick facade, each with basement, three stories and a garret, four chambers to each floor.

  Roddy was leaning against the iron railing that guarded the basement area of the house. The handsome looks that in his youth had brought him a brief success upon the stage had long since faded. His golden hair was thinning, his skin puffy from excess; his double-breasted coat showed equal signs of wear, as did his breeches and top boots.

  He straightened and stepped away from the railing. “Damned if you aren’t a buck of the first head, brother,” he sneered. “Adding Miss Liliane to your stable of whores.”

  Beau owned no such stable. True, he numbered Mrs. Ormsby, Mrs. Thwaite and Miss Mary Fletcher among his admirers, and aspired half-heartedly to acquire Signorina Giordano, but they were hardly whores.

  As for Liliane, he would rather bed a barracuda. “Want me to crack his napper?” Samson inquired.

  Sorely tempted, Beau resisted. “I’ll reserve that privilege for myself.”

  “Have it your way, guv.” Samson took up a position at the bottom of the steps.

  Beau regarded Roddy without enthusiasm. “What do you want now?”

  Roddy pressed a hand to his chest. “Is that any way to talk to a member of your family? And family we are, even if one of us is full of juice while the other don’t have sixpence to scratch with.”

  This was a refrain heard far too often. “Been drawing the bustle too freely, have you?” Beau asked.

  “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strained’,” quoth Roddy. “The gentle rain from heaven blesseth both him that gives and him that takes.” Beau refusing to respond, he gave up playing Portia. “It’s no easy thing, living hand-to-mouth. Being as we’re related, I’m giving you the opportunity to help me raise the wind.”

  Beau wasn’t one to waste the wherewithal. Especially on improvident half-siblings, as Roddy should know from previous encounters of this nature. With mild curiosity he inquired, “Why would I do that?”

  Roddy raised one hand and beckoned. From the shadows emerged a slight, cloaked figure, obviously female. “Behold! Prime goods. If you don’t snap her up, some other gent will.”

  A skilled player, whether at games of heart or chance, learned to prevent his feelings from being writ across his face, in this instance a foreboding that sent Beau’s stomach sliding toward his toes. “I can’t imagine why you belie
ve me to be in need of female companionship,” he drawled, and for good measure flicked a fleck of nonexistent lint from his coat sleeve.

  Roddy smiled, revealing a missing lower tooth. “Ah, but she ain’t just any female. Izzy, show us your face.”

  The girl halted in front of them. Clutching the edges of the cloak together with one hand, she pushed back her hood.

  Hair was as golden as Beau’s own. Wide dark-lashed sapphire eyes. Her features were as divine as any goddess’s, her skin fair and fine as the most priceless porcelain, her cheeks pink with cold.

  Or with embarrassment. Roddy flipped back her cloak to reveal a garish scarlet gown. Beau could not help but notice that the girl had a splendid bosom, most of it on display, and a figure so enticing that any man who saw her would wish to whisk her off immediately to bed.

  Rather, almost any man. Beau felt not the slightest stirring of desire.

  She bit her lip. Beau glimpsed a dimple. He experienced a burning sensation in his chest.

  Chapter Two

  Beau whisked his new acquaintance through the doorway, up the stairs, and into a pleasantly proportioned chamber with rosewood furnishings, a polished oak floor, green and white striped paper hung on the walls. He retreated to the fireplace, rubbing the bruised knuckles of his right hand.

  “Eh bien!” said Liliane, who had followed them into the morning room. “That must be some conversation you and Randy Roddy had. Who is she, other than a Loversall?”

  “She’s too young to be my sister,” muttered Beau. “Beyond that, damned if I know.”

  Liliane studied the young woman, who was gazing wide-eyed around the morning room, which was far from fascinating, save for the bloodstain on the carpet and the ink stain on one wall. Beau raised his voice. “I am Beau Loversall. This is Miss Wickersham. You are in her house. Roderick called you Izzy. Is that your name?”

  The young woman started, then curtsied awkwardly, due to the valise she was clutching to her chest. “Everyone calls me Izzy, though my real name is Iseult. After the legend of Tristan and Iseult. Have you heard it, sir? Iseult’s husband King Mark, who was also Tristan’s uncle, came upon Tristan and Iseult as he was playing the harp for her under a tree— They had accidentally drunk the love potion prepared for Iseult and Mark, so it wasn’t their fault if they committed adultery! The cruel king stabbed his nephew in the back with a poisoned lance, and Tristan, at Iseult’s request, crushed her in a fatal embrace as his final act. They were buried side by side. Two trees, hazel and honeysuckle, grew out of their graves. King Mark tried to have the branches cut three separate times but each time they grew back and intertwined. Eventually he gave up and let them grow. Isn’t that a moving tale?”

  Liliane had listened to this account with fascination. “Voyons! They both died.”

  “Yes, but they died for love!” protested Izzy. “And it is only a story, after all. From what I have seen, people don’t do things like that in real life. My mama certainly did not. Though if she and my father had drunk a love potion, perhaps things might have worked out other than they did. Mama was a parson’s daughter, you see. Papa was an actor, playing Romeo. Mama no sooner set eyes on him than she tumbled violently in love. Papa must have been smitten also, because they ran off together within a fortnight. But pretty is as pretty does, and Papa didn’t act as pretty as he looked, and so Mama took me and left him when I was two years old. Grandfather let her return to the rectory, after he’d given her a dreadful scold, though no one could call her a fallen woman, because she had her marriage lines.”

  Beau roused from the stunned stupor that had struck him. “Roddy is your father?” Badly as Loversalls generally behaved, this was a new low.

  Izzy nodded vigorously. “Mama seldom spoke of Papa; she said that if one can’t say anything good about a person, one should say nothing at all. And now that I have met him, I understand what she meant. Although I didn’t have a chance to know him well, and do not wish to be judgmental. No doubt he has many fine qualities.”

  “If so,” Beau commented drily, “he hasn’t chosen to share them with the rest of us.”

  “Maybe if he had,” said Izzy, “you wouldn’t have broke his face. Not that I mean to criticize! I’m sure you meant it for the best. But he seemed so diminished lying there in the street.”

  Roddy had deserved to be diminished. Selling off a family member. Beau had been so annoyed at being forced to play knight errant that he’d popped him in the nose.

  Liliane gestured Izzy toward the sofa and sat down beside her. “You do realize your father meant to sell you?”

  “He did sell me!” Izzy responded. “I never claimed he was a nice man. But he is still my papa, even though I cannot like him, which I realize is unChristian of me, because ‘needs must when the devil drives’ and I daresay Papa wouldn’t have sold me, if he hadn’t been in need of funds. Or maybe he would have, because I don’t think he liked me much. Which makes me even sadder! Since I have lost my mama, he is the only family I have left. I’m running on again, aren’t I? Mama used to say that I’m a dreadful gabster. You must do as she did, and tell me to leave off. ‘Maidens must be mild and meek, swift to hear, and slow to speak’.”

  Beau broke into this monologue. “Slow down! Your mother is deceased?”

  “There was a contagion in the village.” A tear trickled down Izzy’s cheek. “Both Mama and Grandpapa took sick and died, and though it is not for me to question the ways of our Creator, it seems a shabby way for Him to repay His servants’ good work.” Guiltily, she flushed. “I did not mean that, of course! But it has been very hard. Mr. Addington, the curate, said I could stay with them, but his wife didn’t like the notion because she already has too many mouths to feed. So when I found Papa’s address among Mama’s belongs, I took it as a Sign, because surely a father would long to know his daughter, or so one would think. We composed a letter, and Papa sent me the money to come to London, but now he has gone off and left me here and I am truly all alone in the world.” A tear trickled down one pretty cheek. “It is very sad to stand on bad terms with one’s only parent. Even if he is, though I should not say it, a shocking loose screw. You needn’t look so surprised! Just because a person chooses to find the best in other people — in the case of Papa, I try to at any rate — doesn’t mean that she can’t see what’s right in front of her.”

  Not unacquainted with weeping females, Beau pressed a handkerchief into Izzy’s hand. “You aren’t alone. You have various relatives, most of which, unfortunately, are not in Town.”

  Izzy dabbed her little nose with the linen square. “How kind you are! I cannot understand why my mama wanted nothing to do with the Loversalls. Maybe she assumed you are all like my papa, which clearly you are not! You do look a little bit like him, sir, but I see no signs of meanness around your eyes and mouth. You will think I am a goose but I have to ask: who are you? I don’t like to appear pushing, but you haven’t explained how we are related.”

  Liliane raised her eyebrows. “You went off with Beau without knowing who he was?”

  Izzy looked puzzled. “What else was I to do? It would have been cowardly to run away. Yes, and ungrateful also, because Mr. Loversall had just given money to Papa. You should not have, sir. But it was very generous of you, and I’m sure you meant it for the best.”

  “Incroyable! Beau Loversall paying for a female,” marveled Liliane. “Who would have thought to see the day?”

  Beau shot her a quelling glance. “If you wish to see many more days you’ll keep a still tongue in your head. Your father is my half-brother,” he explained to Izzy, and then there was nothing for it but he must expound upon the family tendency toward amorous excess.

  “Perhaps Papa did love my mama,” Izzy ventured.

  Liliane snorted. “And perhaps frogs may learn to fly.”

  Izzy eyed her with interest. “It is unusual, is it not, for someone as young as you to have an establishment of your own? Maybe you are a harlot. ‘The lips of an adulteress drip with honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil; but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, as sharp as a two-edged sword.’ I’ve never seen a harlot, so I wouldn’t know. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? And after you have been so kind.”